Beautiful Baby
by rooty-boots
Summary: Just a little drabble I wrote a while back, about little Susan Pevensie, her family, and the Bethnal Green Beautiful Baby Competition... Pevensie Sibling Fluff :


I stood before my parents in the living room one Thursday evening, twirling one of my plaits worriedly around my finger. All the children in my kindergarten class had been talking excitedly about my best friend's party this upcoming Saturday, but when I asked my mother what she had bought Kathy for her birthday, I was informed I was not going. As my lip began to tremble, Daddy shook his newspaper irritably.

"Your grandmother is taking you into the city for this silly beauty pageant thing. She's steamrolled me into a corner, and apparently we're to have no peace until I give in."

"Grandma Pevensie?" I asked hopefully, thinking of my quiet, dignified paternal grandmother with her soft hands and softer voice, but my hopes were deflated immediately by the look on my father's face.

"Granny Scrubb, of course. My mother would never suggest something so ridiculous."

Folding his newspaper, my father gave Mummy a dark look. She dropped her eyes to her knitting and pressed her lips together, and I felt myself echoing her movements. I traced the pattern on the rug with my shoe and said nothing. What was there to say? After a moment, I felt a touch on my shoulder and looked up to see my mother crouched beside me.

"I'm sure it will be much more fun than a party, darling. You'll still get to wear your pretty dress. And if you win, Granny will take you for a grown up tea, like she promised."

The prospect of yet another terrifying ordeal was small comfort for missing the birthday party, but I tried to look pleased and grateful. My mother seemed torn in several directions. Even at the age of four, I understood the impossible pressure of trying to please everybody at the same time. Still, I was uncertain.

"What will I have to do, Mummy?"

"Oh, not much. Just smile and look pretty and turn around on the stage, I should expect."

This didn't sound so very difficult, and I could feel the tight knot in my tummy start to ease a little, until Daddy grumbled:

"Oh yes. Parade around in front of a hall full of gawkers. What a waste of time."

Gawkers? Didn't that mean people looking? People watching me? My insides contracted sharply at the thought, but I did not have time to open my mouth to protest.

"Not if she wins, David. Five pounds, or a cine camera? Those are hardly prizes to be sniffed at. You know you've always wanted one of those cameras."

My mother's gentle argument silenced Daddy. He grunted, wordlessly, and raised the newspaper up in front of his face so I couldn't see him anymore; the front page showed a picture of a tall man in black, and I was distracted a moment by the funny gap in his front teeth. Then my father's stern voice came through the pages:

"Well, she'd just better win then, hadn't she?"

...

The morning of the contest was cool and misty, one of those summer mornings you know will burn away into bright heat. It was a Saturday, so Peter was not at school, and I felt very glad he was there. I sat in my white nightdress at the kitchen table between my brothers. Usually, Daddy had a rule about being fully dressed before coming to a meal, and everybody else was in their weekend clothes, even baby Lucy. But I had been left in my nightdress because there was no time to dress me twice. Mummy was busy with the little ones, scolding Edmund for throwing his half-chewed toast on the floor and wiping runny yolk from Lucy's face and hair. She didn't have a moment to talk to me now, and she had forgotten to cut the crusts off my toast soldiers in her rush to get everything ready in time to leave.

I stared at my soldiers; I knew I could not eat them with crusts. But that was alright; the idea of the contest had seemed to wind itself around my insides and squeeze them tight until I could barely speak, let alone eat. Peter leaned across and used his spoon to knock off the top of my boiled egg with all the assurance of the six year old man of the world I knew him to be.

"Buck up, Su. It won't be so bad, I'm sure. Eat your breakfast or it will go cold." He gave me an encouraging little smile and pushed the little egg-cup towards me. I twisted my mouth and my nightgown in my fists.

"I don't want it. I'm too scared," I confessed in an undertone, reaching out to poke the jellied whiteness of the albumen with a tiny fingertip, shuddering as it trembled from my touch. I found eggs rather nauseating at the best of times.

"Why are you scared?" There was no impatience or ridicule in his voice, only gentle, understanding concern.

I took a deep breath and let it out in a shuddering gasp, finding the courage to voice my greatest fear.

"What if I don't win?"

He shrugged, blandly.

"If you don't win, you don't win. You'll come home and we'll play Knights and Dragons, like we always do. It's Saturday."

When I did not smile or answer him straight away, he qualified generously:

"Or Mothers and Fathers, if you want to."

He didn't understand. Peter, who always understood, could not see the trouble. I began to sniffle piteously, feeling dreadfully alone in the world. I could feel my bottom lip shudder, and despite my best efforts, tears sprang to my eyes, making Peter's face contract with concern. He slid off his chair and took my hand immediately.

"I'm just taking Susan to the toilet, Mummy," he said, tugging me down from the table. I followed him of course, as I always did. My mother did not even turn; she was fighting to get egg down my little brother's throat, rather than his jersey. Lucy banged her spoon on the tray of her highchair and beamed at us, not a care in the world.

"Alright, dear. Make sure you both wash your hands before you finish your breakfast though. And don't be too long about it, Granny Scrubb will be here soon, and then we have to get ready."

Peter nodded obediently, opening the back door and guiding me into the dewy garden, down towards the lavatory at the end of the path. My tears were half forgotten in my confusion and the shock of his lie.

"Peter, I don't need a wee."

"I know that, silly. But you don't want Lucy and Edmund to see you cry, do you?"

I dropped my eyes, ashamed. We had made a promise never to cry in front of the little ones, and I had forgotten about it. Peter forgave me immediately, and slid an arm around my shoulders as he led me down the garden path to our secret hideaway in the hedge. The grass was cool, almost cold on my bare feet, and I wished I had my slippers.

"It's alright. Now it's just the two of us. You can cry with me. What is it?"

His kindness always bought out the weakness in me. I gulped back a sob and began to cry in earnest. Peter tightened his arm around me and brushed back a low branch with his arm, tucking me in behind the shed. As soon as we were alone, the words came tumbling out of me in a great tangled rush.

"If I don't win, then we won't get the camera. And if I don't win the camera, then Daddy will be angry with me. And Daddy and Granny Scrubb will be angry with each other, and Daddy will say 'I told you so'. And Granny Scrubb will say it was a waste of money. And Mummy will be sad because we need the money, and because Daddy and Granny will be angry."

It felt very much as if the pressures of the world were crushing down upon my head. To his credit, Peter did not laugh or brush my fears away. He sat me down on the upturned tea crate and looked into my face, considering what I had said. Then he pressed his lips together and spoke in a measured tone:

"Don't worry, Susan. Mummy wants you to enter this competition because she thinks you will have fun. If you don't want to enter, then I will tell Mummy, and you won't have to go. I'm sure the competition people will give Granny her money back."

Even then, my honest elder brother was more innocent and guileless than I; he led me in everything, but I often had to be the bearer of hard truths. I shook my head, hiccupping:

"No they won't. And besides, I want to win the camera for Daddy. I don't want him to be angry. I want him to be proud of me."

Peter smiled a bit and pulled out his handkerchief. It still smelled of Vicks from all the colds he had had in our damp old house, but to me that was a very comforting scent, the smell of my brother.

"He _is _proud of you, Su. He calls you his Princess, doesn't he? And besides, I think you can do it. You don't have to _say _anything. All you have to do is go and show the ladies and gentlemen how beautiful you are. That's easy, isn't it?"

I smiled a little, taking the handkerchief from him to wipe my face.

"Do you think I'm beautiful?"

Peter pulled a face, scrunching an eye shut and examining me with brotherly detachment.

"You're _quite _beautiful. You're the most beautiful out of all of us four, anyway."

I smiled at this back-handed compliment, feeling a little comforted, braver. If Peter thought I could do it, well then, I could. He saw the change in me immediately, and smiled too, breaking into a little laugh. Then he sat down beside me and rolled up my sleeve to trail his fingers up and down my arm, until my tears stopped completely.

...

When we went back inside, the babies were nowhere to be seen. Mummy was starching my white Sunday petticoats, blowing her hair off her sweaty forehead, and the kitchen was full of steam from the iron. As Peter shut the door behind us, she looked up, giving us a weary, reproachful look.

"Come on, you two, where have you been? Wash your hands and finish your breakfast. Granny's here."

We scrubbed our hands and sat down immediately; without daring to fuss I dipped one of my soldiers in lukewarm yolk and stuck it in my mouth, crust and all. Granny Scrubb was not to be trifled with. Even though she was her daughter, Mummy always seemed anxious around my grandmother. Daddy just seemed cross whenever she was in the house. As for the four of us, well, Peter liked her as well as he liked anybody. He was her favourite, and he bore her kisses and caresses without a flinch or a word of protest. A tiny gentleman, he always shared the spoils between the four of us, even when Edmund had been declared too naughty for sweets. Baby Lucy was all smiles for anyone who loved her, and even Granny could not help adoring Lucy. And Edmund, who was almost three and reputedly the naughtiest, seemed to find in Granny both a useful ally and a worthy adversary by turns. I was simply scared of her.

The prospect of a day alone with her in the city was a frightening one indeed, and even though the idea of the competition itself no longer seemed quite so intimidating, I could feel Peter's words of comfort slipping away from me as I watched him hurriedly spoon cold egg into his mouth. But this was Granny's idea, and I was Granny's charge for the day; there was no escape, and nobody, not even Peter, could rescue me from it. I swallowed my rubbery egg in sick, resigned silence.

Once I was finished, I slid off my chair and brought my plate and Peter's to my mother to be washed.

"Thank you, Susan. Now go upstairs to get ready with Granny."

Sighing, I gave Peter a rather reproachful look and left the kitchen, my cold bare toes tense on the linoleum. The carpet of the hallway was not much better; it felt dry and scratchy, unlike the soft old rugs in our house in Golders Green. Daddy had thrown all of those away. Reaching up for the banister, I began to mount the stairs, taking them slowly, one by one. Each step seemed almost twice as tall as the ones in Golders Green.

"Come now, Susan! We don't have all day! We're already running late."

Granny was standing at the top of the stairs with Lucy clinging precariously to her petticoats on her wobbly little legs. I started and began to hurry up the steps, holding my arms out to my little sister in case she should topple over, and to my horror, she grinned and held both her arms out to me, letting go of her grip on Granny's skirts, gently tipping forwards in her efforts to reach me.

"Lucy!"

Granny and I shouted at the same time, and my grandmother grabbed her chubby little arm at the last second, yanking her back from the fall. Shocked and unhappy at being denied her embrace, Lucy began to cry, and Granny tutted irritably, stooping to pick her up and giving her a sharp tap on the hand.

"Silly girl! Don't play near the stairs! Now, come on, we don't have time. We need to make you presentable, Susan."

Poor Lucy was consigned, sobbing, to her playpen in our parents' room, but I did not have time to feel sorry for her. A far worse fate was in store for me. She gave me a vicious bath with Lysol soap, and used the nail brush not only on my nails, but all over, on my knees and elbows, scrubbing my outdoor-girl skin to a smooth sheen. I had thought I was perfectly clean, having had a bath only the night before, but by the time Granny was finished with me, the bath was grey with old skin flakes and I was bright pink all over; I felt raw and soft and exposed, like one of the snails Edmund like to pull from their shells. But it was not over yet.

Granny drained the bath, and to my horror, began to refill it with hot, fresh water. She drew out a little phial from her handbag and poured a few drops of sweet smelling oil onto the top of the bathwater, and dispersed them violently with her hand. Then, to my surprise, she drew out a little box and tipped some fine powder into the bath, turning the water white. Shivering in my towel, I turned my head almost upside down trying to read the strangely familiar words on the side of the box. I was sure I had seen it before.

"Mii...lk.. Pow... Milk powder, Granny?" I could not help but ask.

To my surprise, she turned on her knees and gave me a wink.

"That's right. Best thing for the skin."

I must have looked rather sceptical because Granny quickly countered:

"Oh yes. I know your other Granny only uses fancy oils and bath salts and expensive things like that, but I tell you now, it's a complete waste of money. Milk powder, glycerine and lavender water. That's all you need for good skin. Of course, you get your skin from me. I was a real beauty in my youth, you know. And all I ever had was milk powder, glycerine and lavender water."

I examined my Granny's face. It was true, she had a lovely skin, very smooth and almost dewy in the damp bathroom light. Though her words were often harsh, her complexion was soft and unlined. When she stretched her hand out to me, I took it, still watching her face.

I hissed a bit as she put me back in the water; it was hot and scalded my sore, pink skin. But once I got used to the temperature, I realised that my milk had a lovely slippery consistency, and the raw feeling was slowly ebbing away. Granny smiled with satisfaction and picked up the sponge, beginning to wash me.

"Cleopatra used to bathe in asses milk, you know."

There were so many questions brought up by this simple sentence I barely knew which one to ask. Finally, I started with the most obvious.

"Who is Cleopatra, please Granny?"

"She was a Queen of Egypt, a long, long time ago. The most beautiful Queen there ever was in the whole world. And she would bathe in a bath of milk every night to keep herself so."

I gasped, enthralled.

"Even more beautiful than Queen Elizabeth?"

Granny snorted at this:

"Susan dear, use your eyes. Queen Elizabeth is as homely as they come. She looks like a currant bun."

My eyes rounded with horror at this profanity, and I turned my head to the door, hoping to goodness my father was not in earshot, but Granny only laughed and began to soap my hair:

"You needn't look so shocked. I'm only stating the truth. You think she's beautiful because you're told to, and you see her on tea-towels and commemorative plates. But no amount of propaganda can make it true; she's a bulldog, no two ways about it. Mark my words, my girl... the monarchy may have no real use in this world but they certainly have no business being ugly. At least Cleopatra was nice to look at."

I stared at Granny rather blankly, unable to process this great slew of information. My mouth hung open, and as she rinsed my hair, it filled with the sharp tang of soap, making me splutter and my eyes burn. Granny laughed and poured another jug of water over my head.

"Close your mouth, child. There's a bus coming."

...

The number three pulled up at the bus stop, and I felt Granny pull me sharply back from the kerb to save my shoes and petticoats. I nearly stumbled, but kept upright by clinging tightly to Granny's hand. Now we were off, I knew I would not let go, but I longed for Peter, or even Edmund to keep my company. As Granny paid the conductor our fare, I turned and looked wistfully back towards the corner of our street, and kept my eyes on our road sign through the window as Granny tugged me along the aisle to a seat in the middle of the bus. Before I was allowed to sit down, she took out her handkerchief and licked it, wiping the seat down before spreading the damp cotton square out beneath me as a cushion. I sat down on it with obedient distaste and folded my hands neatly in my lap, and as Granny squashed in beside me my net petticoats rustled and scratched at my legs.

The journey into town was long, but there was a lot to see. I amused myself by counting pigeons, but our kindergarten teacher had only taught us one to twenty so far, and there were so very many of them that by the time Granny rang for our stop I had counted three twenties and another seven. As we walked down the aisle once more, I fixed this makeshift figure in my mind and resolved to ask Peter how many that was.

As we stepped out onto the street, Granny took a little pair of white gloves out of her pocket and bent to help me into them before taking my hand up once more. Holding me very tightly, she led the way through the crowds of people and I was lost in a sea of legs and coats. On the rare occasions that Daddy brought me and Peter into town, people generally parted to let us pass by, but Granny did not seem to command that kind of respect, and this was a very different area of London to the places I had been before. I could tell by the smell and the feel of it. People seemed jollier and more raucous; they bustled rather than shuffled and called to one another in loud voices. I wanted to like it, but I was frightened.

Finally, we emerged from the crowds and I found myself standing with Granny on a short flight of stairs. Through a pair of glass doors I could see several other little girls with their mothers, all dressed in their Sunday best, a day too early. Granny pushed the door open and pulled me inside, and then I could see more clearly. There weren't just girls here, but boys and babies too. There was a great big sign which I could not read, but which Granny told me read: "Bethnal Green Beautiful Baby Competition." My eyes began to sting with humiliation. I did not want to be a baby. I wanted to be a big girl and help my brother look after the little ones.

"What are you snivelling for?" Granny jerked my hand and snapped at me. I could not explain it to her, so I stopped crying immediately, tightening my lips over my tears. I looked around. All the other little girls were blonde and prettier than me. Their hair curled in pretty golden ringlets, and I was suddenly very aware of my tight black braids. If I was not beautiful, and I was not a baby, why was I here? I didn't understand what I was supposed to do.

Eventually, a lady came through and corralled us all into a line. I had to leave Granny behind me, and while she was little comfort, when I turned back and reached out to her she gave me such a big, broad smile that it gave me a little courage to go on. I steeled myself, pressing my lips hard together and giving my cheeks a pinch to calm myself, pretending it was Daddy. The lady led us into a hall which was half-full of people; ladies in nice dresses and a few men in flat caps, with their hands in their pockets and cigarettes in their mouths.

In the end there was very little to it. The lady led us from one end of the room and back again and then we all stood still while three ladies and a gentleman, sat at a long table, looked at us and wrote things down on their notebooks. Two of the golden, ringletted girls edged towards one another and gripped hands, and I wondered if they were sisters. I wondered, then, if I could not have brought my own sister with me. Lucy was a baby after all, and she was certainly beautiful. Then the little boy next to me began to cry because he had wet his trousers. The golden twins squeaked and backed away from him, with a look of horror on their identical faces, but I winced with sympathy. Momentarily forgetting that there were people looking, I passed him my new, starched handkerchief, meaning for him to wipe his eyes on it; instead, he bent to mop up the little puddle at his feet, then held the wet handkerchief back out to me. What could I do? I took it.

"Thank you." I whispered, and he gave me a small, bashful smile before his mother came, tapping and tutting, to scoop him up and take him away to the bathrooms. I followed her progress across the floor, frowning at the soft chuckles of the audience as they watched the little boy go. He hid his face in shame, but when he was gone, everyone turned their attention back to me, with the wet, urine soaked handkerchief in my hands. I knew instinctively that they were watching to see what I would do. So I did nothing. I folded the hanky up and held it neatly in front of me, feeling my pretty white gloves dampen. If these people thought I was going to flinch and squeal like those silly girls, then they obviously didn't have a little brother and a little sister at home to look after.

After a long moment of silence, the four judges' heads bent over their papers once more, and after a minute or two the man stepped out from behind the table. Moving along the line, the gentleman passed us all by, one by one, smiling down into each of our faces. First, he pinned a yellow rosette to the bonnet of a lovely little baby in his mother's arms. The baby's mother smiled and even bobbed a little curtsey as another lady brought her a great big basket of fruit. My mouth watered at the sight of it; it had been so long since I tasted an apple or a pear. I was so absorbed by the sight of it that I did not notice the man right away. To my great surprise, he stopped by me and pinned a blue rosette to my front, before giving one of my plaits a tug.

"True grace under pressure, young lady," he beamed, but he thought better than to extend his hand, as he had to the baby's mother. I hid the soggy handkerchief behind my back and gave him a bashful smile as he ran a hand over my hair.

"You're my favourite, but I'm afraid I've been overruled."

He nodded ruefully to the panel of lady judges still smiling behind the table. The same lady followed him, and obviously wanted to hand me a large box, but I had nowhere to put the hanky, and she seemed loathe to take it from me. We juggled uncertainly for a moment before I felt my grandmother come up behind me.

"I'll take that, thank you kindly."

The woman smiled gratefully and passed the box to Granny, before moving on. I did not turn, but I could feel Granny's coat warm against my back and then she laid her rough hand on my head, making me smile.

Moving on, I watched as the man bent to pin a pink rosette onto one of the little blonde girls, the slightly smaller of the two. She stared up at him, and then, as her mother began to clap and shout, she broke into a lovely, gap-toothed smile as the man shook her little hand. I warmed to her then; she looked a bit like Lucy. As the room erupted into boisterous clapping, I heard Granny murmur:

"Second place. Not bad for a beginner, Su. Now let's go and wash those hands."

...

On the way home on the bus, I counted pigeons again. This time, there were two twenties and another twelve. My head was beginning to reel with the effort of holding all these numbers, as well as the day's happenings all at once. I longed for Peter, so I could siphon some of it off into him. My brother had an excellent memory.

"Remember that time we went to the Zoo?" he'd say. Or "Remember when Daddy took us to London, and we got lost?" I could never remember anything from when I was very little, but I trusted Peter to remember it for me.

My mind was so busy with all these thoughts that it never occurred to me to speak to Granny about what it was that had happened, or what I had won, or even how I had won it.

When we walked in through the front door, Granny gave a triumphant whoop.

"Second place, Helen! Didn't I tell you? Your daughter won second place in her first show! A miniature Vivien Leigh, they said."

Mummy came out of the kitchen with Lucy on her hip, a genuine but uncertain smile on her face. She stooped to give me a one-armed hug, saying brightly:

"Well _done_ my darling! Did you have a good time?"

Holding me by the shoulders, she looked intently into my face as Lucy strained in her arms to give me a wet, open mouthed kiss. Mummy's eyes were wide and hopeful. I didn't know what to say, how I could possibly describe my day to her, but fortunately, Granny took charge. Giving me a little push, she steered me into the living room

Peter and Edmund were sitting on the living room carpet, playing with Peter's new fire engine. Daddy was in his chair before the fire, rustling the Times and puffing away on his pipe. I liked the smell of it - not so much for itself, for he smoked a harsh brand of tobacco that tended to catch you in the back of the throat when he gave a particularly indignant puff – but for its familiarity. Our big new house smelt blank and frightening to me when we first moved in, but now, thanks to my father and his pipe, it was beginning to feel more like home.

Granny dropped the box into my father's lap, saying triumphantly:

"What do you say to that, then, David? Still a waste of time?"

The box must have been heavy, for Daddy gave an irritable little grunt as it fell onto his stomach. Peter and Edmund looked up, watching our father rather fearfully for his reaction.

"What's this, then?" He asked gruffly, turning the plain brown box over in his hands.

"Personal camera," Granny crowed. "Top of the line. Brand new."

Everybody's eyes widened, and Daddy carefully turned the box upright with a new reverence, his eyes gleaming greedily. His lips fretted a little wetly beneath his moustache, and he muttered.

"Never. For a children's beauty pageant? I never heard of such a thing."

"You have now," said Granny in a clipped, superior tone as she fiddled coquettishly with the clasp of her handbag.

"Mother, won't you come and have some tea to celebrate?" my own mother called from the door, jerking her head to the kitchen. Granny pursed her lips and slung the bag into the crook of her arm.

"No time. I've got places to be. We've a Labour meeting this afternoon, and then I have to get back to fix your father's supper. A woman's work is never done, Helen. You know that." Mummy's mouth snapped shut, and I could tell somehow that there was more to this sentence, but I did not know what it was. I was still thinking about it as Granny stooped to kiss me.

"Very well done my dear. Only next time, no picking up after the opposition."

She gave me another precious wink as the others frowned at one another in confusion. Then she took a small paper bag of sweets from her handbag, passing them to Peter to share out between us. Throwing my father another look of unveiled triumph, she swept almost regally from the room.

"I'll see myself out," she said. And, as always, she did.

...


End file.
